


You know what they say about the Navy

by id_ten_it



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Brize Norton, Cricket, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Royal Air Force, The Royal Navy, burns night, haggis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: On his way home from cricket one day, Merlin runs into an old friend and they have a grand old time remembering, well, old times.





	You know what they say about the Navy

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "We all know sailors are after one thing". Also, how is 'Burns Night' not a tag yet?

It is a relatively summer’s day this Saturday, and Hamish slings his cricket bat over his left shoulder as he ambles away from the pitch, whites slightly stained at the knees from a daring dive that saved them a four, skin burnished from a day outside and the reddening light. They won by 35 runs and if his own 50 never came, well, that doesn’t diminish his pleasure in this gentlemanly sport. A woman jogger eyes him appreciatively on her way past and he winks even as he wonders where Harry has got himself off to. Buying ice creams indeed. More likely to be having an ogle at his partner in whites.

Hamish is chuckling to himself at the various images flitting through his mind when another runner passes, giving him an admiring glance, then turns around with a familiar oath. “Bloody hell!” that familiar Scottish voice whispers, “I nearly dinnae recognize ye.”  
“James!” Hamish goes into the bear hug with alacrity, slapping his back with his free hand and pulling a face, “yer bloody sweating. Filthy man.”  
“Me? What about ye? Strutting around here looking good enough ter eat, and this a public park!”  
Hamish laughs delightedly, ruffling the spy’s hair and grinning at his antics. “I thought M had ye off somewhere still, or I’d’ve invited myself over fer a wee dram. Was a lonely Burns Night and all.”  
James looks slightly chastened, but beneath his own Caribbean tan there is barely a flush. “Back a couple days ago. I just…” he breaks off, catching Hamish’s eye and grimacing. “I cannae tell ye here. Maybe ye’ll need to come around and check in with Q, do some of that boffin chatter.”  
“I might, at that.” Hamish allows, worried in spite of knowing MI6 will have full control of his maverick friends decompression and re-integration. “Only if ye allow me a postponed Burns Night with ye.”  
“Fine. So long as ye buy the haggis!” Both men fall about themselves laughing, Hamish’s arm still slung around James’ shoulders, the pair the perfect picture of Scots health and wellbeing in their trim PT rig and apparently carefree joy.

“Yer only grumpy about that cause of what happened after.”  
“I was combing haggis-y oats out of my chest hair for days afterwards, James!”  
“At least ye didn’t have to explain to yer instructor why yer chute suit reeked of the Highlands, and him a Welshman and all.”  
“Well it’s all yer fault anyway yer big poofter. Ye know what they say about sailors and ye just couldnae help but prove it.”  
Harry, deftly saving first one and then the other ice cream from certain death, is amazed to see his Hamish laughing and hugging another man with every expression of contentment. He knows intellectually of course that Hamish _has_ other friends, and has had other partners, but outside of work or listening to half of a phone call, he has never really thought about it before. He’s certainly not prepared for what he hears next. The words might be spoken with all the due deference of two men not wanting to get in trouble with the morality police, but they’re perfectly audible to someone stepping nearly within their personal space and trying to eavesdrop.  
“What do they say about sailors, fly boy?” The other man’s voice is low, a dangerous purr, but Hamish just chuckles his delighted little chuckle.   
“All sailors are after a nice man or two.” Harry smirks, well able to agree with this.   
The other man looks outraged. “Ye were the one” he murmurs, “who had his prick in my arse. Airman.”  
“That’s SAC to you, Sir.” Hamish retorts, cheerfully, retrieving his arm and using the movement to squeeze the Navy Officer’s shapely rear before half-turning and beaming at Harry. “Ice creams! Took you long enough.” As he takes one he spies the ‘rescue’ marks Harry left. “More than long enough” he adds, mournfully.

“For a man who spent so long thinking cold milk was the pinnacle of achievement, yer making a lot of noise.” The Officer sounds nearly as fond as Harry is, and this makes Harry grouchy.

“I don’t think we’ve met. Harry.” He offers one impeccably-kempt hand to the other man, who meets it with the less-bandaged of his own.   
“James Bond. Pleased to meet ye. Ye don’t play?” An elegant nod takes in Hamish and all his cricket-white glory. Harry shakes his head, unconsciously holding Bond’s hand slightly longer than politeness requires.   
“James and I were just arranging a small Burns Night between the two of us. We try and keep the tradition, as ye know.” Hamish interpolates, and then, more gently, “and we may have got slightly distracted reminiscing on our time at Brize together. Muggins made his own haggis like the fool he is and it all went rather downhill.”  
“Sounded like it went uphill to me, Hamish.” Harry clamps his lips together, his eyes telegraphing his panic as the words left him. This is still new, still tender, and he has no idea how to deal with James Bond, who has known Hamish since they were both barely old enough to go on shoots, and has apparently also experienced the delight that is Hamish’s talented prick. Bond looks different than his photograph in Hamish’s rooms, bigger and tougher, more virulent and surer of himself than comes across through ink and paper. Harry thinks he might hate the man. He wishes he’d identified him sooner.  
“I think that’s our cue to leave. I’ll arrange a time to come by in the next few days, James.” Hamish takes a quick slurp of his ice cream, before juggling it and the cricket bat to hug his old friend quickly and carefully. “Take care till then. Don’t push too hard.”  
“As if I ever would!” James turns and runs off in an easy lope, and Harry feels his face flush.

“I….I’m sorry.” He tries.  
“Good.” Hamish strides off, licking his ice cream, and Harry rushes in behind to pepper him with questions, but is pre-empted. “We grew up nearby. He came to Brize for a parachute course, I gave him hell for being a Navy Officer taking it up the arse from a newly minted SAC, he finished course and eventually told me about this great gig going at MI6. I was sick of the RAF and looking for something new. Kingsman got me, and ye know everything else.”  
“Everything?”  
“Well” Hamish tips him a wink, “I could show ye something when we get home if ye like? How do ye feel about men in sports gear?”  
“I have very strong feelings in men in long white pants that look like they’ve been on their knees already today.” Harry admits, “especially in this temperature. Perhaps you could remind me about the ice cube thing too.”

When they get inside Harry’s flat, Hamish puts away his kit and takes his partners hands. “I love ye.” Harry is opening his lips to respond in some way to this wonderful man who has somehow ended up in his life, when Hamish quirks a grin and steps back, “let me just grab some ice.”


End file.
